


Craving

by wedjateye



Series: Craving [1]
Category: Weiss Kreuz
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-28
Updated: 2011-03-28
Packaged: 2017-10-17 07:09:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,188
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/174212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wedjateye/pseuds/wedjateye
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Yohji would do anything, really, <i>anything</i> to get Aya to give him a chance. So giving up one pesky vice for a month will be easy, yes?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Craving

The first drag is sheer bliss. Yohji inhales and inhales, eyes closed, lungs expanding until his chest feels impossibly light. He can visualise the smoke hitting his bloodstream. Warmth spreading from his heart, tingling all the way to his fingers, fizzing gently into his brain to soothe his raging thoughts.  
   
The exhale is even better. Irritation flowing out of him in a smooth stream.  
   
By the third drag Yohji’s head is spinning. For a moment he thinks he might actually float away; a glowing nicotine balloon. Then the weight of his ribs anchors him, driving forth breath that jags awkwardly in his throat. Yohji opens his eyes to watch the plume fragmenting into puffs with each convulsive movement of his chest. Smoke signals.  
   
Disgustedly, Yohji stares at his cigarette.  
   
“You’d better be worth it,” he mutters gloomily.  
   
~  
   
“Aya, what’ll it take for you to give me a chance?”  
   
Yohji is just drunk enough to ask. Still sober enough to hide how avidly he is monitoring Aya’s reaction. Which, unsurprisingly, is a snort.  
   
Aya twitches slightly, the movement enough to worry Yohji that they have reached the final portion of this ritual. The kicking Yohji out portion.  
   
“Come on,” Yohji pleads, letting his head loll back onto the edge of Aya’s futon so he can smirk seductively up at him, “you know you want to.” Yohji struggles to maintain his smile through the jolt of apprehension Aya’s furious glare provokes. Maybe he’s _too_ drunk.  
   
After a moment Aya makes a small, resigned sound and stops glaring. “You’re delusional,” he retorts, but the words lack sting.  
   
Yohji feels his smile broaden. Just exactly drunk enough.  
   
“You do,” Yohji insists happily.  
   
“How do you figure that?” Aya asks. He sounds genuinely curious.  
   
“Because you haven’t killed me yet,” Yohji proclaims triumphantly. After all, from Aya, lack of violence is surely the equivalent of a sultry striptease.  
   
Aya snorts again before rolling smoothly off his bed to crouch beside Yohji, one hand latching onto his wrist preparatory to yanking him to his feet.  
   
“Wait!” Yohji forestalls rapidly. “You haven’t even had a drink yet.” He jiggles the bottle stuck between his legs invitingly.  
   
“I never have a drink,” Aya answers flatly, his miniscule store of patience clearly exhausted. Aya tugs, and Yohji allows the momentum to pull him forward. His upper body sprawls almost onto Aya’s knee, face so close to the vee of Aya’s t-shirt that Yohji can feel Aya’s body heat on his skin.  
   
Aya inhales sharply and Yohji plunges into the gap.  
   
“Give me one good reason why not, Aya.”  
   
Harsh breathing fills the silence until Aya’s grip tightens about Yohji’s wrist to lever him away. Yohji stares at Aya, confused by the mismatch between the pain throbbing in his arm and the tingle of Aya’s other hand gliding along his thigh. He almost misses Aya’s words; brain close to sensory overload.  
   
“I’ll give you three,” Aya promises.  His left hand trails down to Yohji’s inner thigh as his right hand relinquishes Yohji’s wrist to slide smoothly up his arm and across his shoulder. Yohji moans loudly, eyes closing involuntarily.  
   
“One,” Aya purrs, reaching the bottle that Yohji is now clamping tightly between his legs. “Two,” Aya breathes the word against Yohji’s neck as his fingers dip into Yohji’s pocket.  
   
“God Aya,” Yohji swallows hard, then blinks in surprise as cool air rushes to fill the space warm body occupied  a second earlier.  
   
Aya waves Scotch and a cigarette packet at him. ‘One-two’, Yohji’s brain supplies.  
   
“Aya?” Yohji gasps, winded.  
   
Aya gazes at him for a long beat before deliberately placing Yohji’s vices back within easy reach.  
   
“Time to go Yohji.” Aya’s voice contains just a hint of something. Something that makes Yohji really, really not want to leave.  
   
“Three?” Yohji asks, feeling pathetic.  
   
Aya leans in, reaches out to touch Yohji’s throat, stroking one finger along skin that shivers into goosebumps. He pulls back to look at his fingertip before displaying it to Yohji.  
   
It takes Yohji a long moment to focus past the unexpected rueful twist to Aya’s lips; to take in the significance of the smear of red lipstick.  
   
“Oh.” Yohji deflates.  
   
“It’s late Yohji.” That maddening hint is still there. Yohji wants to decipher it so badly he feels reckless.  
   
“I’ll give one of them up,” he offers boldly.  
   
“What?” Aya snaps impatiently.  
   
“Pick one – booze, smokes, girls.” Yohji keeps talking fast, even though he has the distinct feeling he should be thinking this through first. Things must be dire if he is wishing he were stone cold sober right now.  
   
“I’ll give up whatever you choose, as a sign of good faith.”  
   
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Aya says coldly.  
   
“I’m game if you are,” Yohji challenges, knowing he somehow has to engage Aya’s pride if he is going to draw him in to this.  
   
“All that would happen is we’d fuck, then five minutes later you’d be back chasing anything in a skirt.”  
   
Yohji blinks again. Who knew Fujimiya Aya could be so blunt? Well, everyone knows that actually. But Yohji has never even heard Aya mention sex before. And did Aya just admit to vulnerability?  
   
“I’m not so hard up I need to fuck a slut like you.” Aya finishes.  
   
Yeah. Real vulnerable.  
   
“I’m actually very picky about who I sleep with,” Yohji sniffs.  
   
“So I should feel honoured?” Aya retorts.  
   
“No,” Yohji answers automatically, wincing when he realises he should have said yes. He needs to get this conversation back on track, back under his control.  
   
“Look, no strings, no risk on your part. I’ll give up the girls for a fortnight, if you agree to at least think about giving me a shot with you at the end of it.”  
   
Yohji holds his breath, watching Aya closely. He looks as if … no, he actually _is_ considering it.  
   
“Come on, it’ll be amusing for you – getting to watch me suffer,” Yohji cajoles.  
   
“A month.” Aya responds finally.  
   
Yohji takes a deep breath. He can tell from the set of Aya’s shoulders and the blankness of his expression, that this is a take it or leave it offer. Aya is probably already second guessing himself.  
   
“Done. A month.”  
   
Yohji allows a wicked smile to break out over his face. He feels exhilarated. He can easily satisfy his own needs for a month. It’s not like he’s lacking fantasy material to supply the mood. Picturing Aya in his mission gear alone could keep him going for a year or two.  
   
Yohji really is selective about who he takes to bed. And for several months now, few have measured up. How can they, when the package Yohji craves has violet eyes and a temper so short that it must be proof of Yohji possessing a masochistic streak a mile wide?  
   
Aya nods, confirming his agreement, then glances meaningfully at the door. Yohji takes the hint and starts getting to his feet, reaching for his whisky and smokes.  
   
“Uh uh, you won’t be needing these.” Aya twitches the cigarette packet out of Yohji’s hand.  
   
“What?” Yohji splutters. Aya can’t be changing the rules on him already.  
   
“You said I could choose,” Aya says calmly.  
   
“But what about the no sex thing?” Yohji asks, incredulously.  
   
“If I was hung up on who you sleep with, we wouldn’t have an agreement at all,” Aya asserts.  
   
Damn it. Yohji was so sure things were going his way. He looks longingly at his cigarettes. He wants one now. Maybe if he asks nicely… One look at Aya’s face dispels that thought. It’s now or never.  
   
Yohji grits his teeth and walks to the door. He almost makes it out without opening his big mouth.  
   
“You know, I could sneak any number of cigarettes in the next month and you’d never know.” God, he’s an idiot. A real idiot.  
   
Aya gives him a pitying look and Yohji bites his tongue to hold back his babbling retraction.  
   
“I’d know Yohji.”  
   
Yohji realises he is right. Somehow Aya always manages to see right through him.  
   
~  
   
Ken flops down on the lounge with a loud groan.  
   
“Someone shoot me.”  
   
Omi, collapsed in a chair, responds with a heartfelt sigh.  
   
“Tell me he’s going out for the night and I don’t have to see his face until tomorrow,” Ken pleads.  
   
“Monday,” Aya grunts.  
   
“Huh?”  
   
“He’ll sleep until tomorrow afternoon,” Aya elaborates.  
   
“And you don’t plan on being in the same room as Yohji until you have to work together next,” Omi surmises, after it is obvious Aya has finished.  
   
“Not if I can help it,” Aya answers plaintively.  
   
“Why didn’t you just kill him when he wanted to learn how to do better arrangements?” Ken asks Aya curiously.  
   
Aya shudders reflexively at the thought of their non-existent profit margin. At least he hadn’t had to personally throw out the mangled flowers. Yohji was so determined to keep busy, he even cleaned up after himself.  
   
A couple of sigh-filled minutes pass before anyone speaks again.  
   
“It won’t last, you know. He’ll make us miserable for a few days and then he’ll be back to poisoning us with second hand smoke,” Ken predicts grumpily.  
   
“Kenken!” Omi admonishes. “Yohji-kun needs our support right now.”  
   
“I _was_ supportive,” Ken protests. “Didn’t you hear me? I even offered to go jogging with him if he was going to get fit.”  
   
Omi giggles, recalling the look of horror on Yohji’s face. He had haughtily replied that he wouldn’t be seen dead in the clothes Ken exercises in.  
   
“Yeah, well, I wouldn’t touch the clothes Yohji sluts around in with a ten foot pole, so the feeling’s mutual,” Ken mutters.  
   
“What I want to know is why Yohji-kun decided to give up smoking now.”  
   
“Beats me,” Ken answers readily, but Omi is looking at Aya who has his head thrown back on his chair, eyes closed.  
   
“How about you Aya-kun? Do you have any idea?” Omi asks, his soft tone at odds with the shrewdness of his expression.  
   
“I’m not an expert at what goes on in Yohji’s excuse for a brain,” Aya snaps, rising to leave.  
   
“Boy, Yohji really got to him, huh?” Ken muses, watching Aya depart.  
   
“I guess so,” Omi answers thoughtfully.  
   
Ken rubs one hand through his already mussed hair. “Pizza?” he asks cheerfully.  
   
“Sounds good Kenken.” Omi can’t help smiling back.  
   
“Would you order it Omi? The game’s about to start,” Ken wheedles.  
   
“Sure Ken,” Omi laughs.  
   
~  
   
I never realised smoking took up so much time, Yohji thinks, surveying the large pile he has evicted from his wardrobe. Now I can actually find things. And I have so much more room for new clothes. Maybe I’ll go shopping tomorrow. Reward myself. He smiles happily at the thought.  
   
Maybe he’s not really addicted after all. Today has been pretty easy. And his team-mates must appreciate his new work ethic.  
   
Yohji pats his empty pocket.  
   
Shit! Well, it’s a habit, doing that. Not going to disappear overnight. He looks at the clock. Still too early. Yohji’s reputation would be shredded if he turned up at his favourite nightspots at this hour. Maybe he should bundle up those clothes for some lucky charity.  
   
Naaah.  
   
He can pass a couple of hours in a bar. Get started on his evening’s drinking. Hook up with a date to pass the time with, since Aya explicitly doesn’t care.  
   
Yohji can’t really get that deal. He’s never seen Aya with anyone, but Yohji’s always felt a surge of hot jealousy when other people check out Aya’s looks. Something that happens all too frequently with Aya’s exotic colouring. And his spectacularly sexy ass. If not for Aya’s obliviousness to all overtures, Yohji would have lost his cool over it more than once. That would have been all too embarrassing and revealing.  
   
Then again, Aya didn’t exactly seem shocked last night. Maybe it’s not lack of awareness. Maybe he’s just disdainful of potential suitors.  
   
The thought that Aya may have known about Yohji’s feelings long before he began his drunken nocturnal visits sends a shiver along Yohji’s skin. He shakes himself to dispel it. He’s looking at this all wrong. Aya has agreed to give him a chance at a shot.  
   
Yohji grins. “You want me, Aya baby. And it’s only a matter of time.”  
   
~  
   
“You sure you don’t want one of these?”  
   
Yohji blinks, grappling for his charming smile before it slides right off his face. His date has her head cocked to one side, exquisite brown eyes wide. She waves her cigarette at him and Yohji can’t help but inhale deeply, like a cartoon character eagerly following the trail of an appetising aroma.  
   
She flips her packet along the bar to him.  
   
“I don’t smoke.”  
   
She winces at the edge in his voice and Yohji smiles again in apology, before buying them another round.  
   
Several drinks later and everything in the bar shimmers into the warm haze that Yohji loves. Well being suffuses him and his date seems irresistible; the bright red polish of her nails shining against her silver lighter, her lips pursed just so, the hypnotising flicker as he leans forward…  
   
“Shit!”  
   
Yohji looks at the intact cylinder between his traitorous fingers before mangling it and flinging it onto the bar.  
   
“I _told_ you, I don’t smoke.”  
   
She stares back at him with glassy eyed defiance. “Whatever, jerk. If you spent half as much time looking at me as you did my cigarettes…” She makes a sound of disgust in the back of her throat, drains her glass and leaves without a backward glance.  
   
Yohji’s mood plummets. Acrid smoke stings his eyes and the background chatter is suddenly oppressive. Time to go. He curses himself as he automatically reaches for a phantom packet on the bar.  
   
He clicks the door closed quietly when he arrives home. Muted light and noise spills from the living room. Yohji would rather not see his teammates right now.  
   
Not strictly true, he amends as he pauses in the hallway upstairs. Light shines underneath Aya’s door. He’s still awake. Not that Aya being asleep has been a barrier to Yohji’s recent visits. But he was much drunker then. Drunk enough to assume that an unlocked door equated to a welcome sign. Drunk enough not to care anyway.  
   
Yohji was so close to blowing it tonight. Much as he wants to see Aya, to remind himself of why he is doing this… He doesn’t want Aya to know how weak he is. How he almost didn’t make it to 24 hours.  
   
It’s not like Aya will be sympathetic. Not like he’ll try to help Yohji find ways to ignore the nicotine cravings that have assailed him since he left the bar. Not like he’ll succumb to Yohji’s thought that if only he had other things to do with his hands and mouth…  
   
Amazing how hard it is to sleep without Yohji’s usual stupor of alcohol, nicotine and sated lust.  
   
~  
   
Sunday has never dragged so badly. Of course, Yohji usually sleeps for more than half the day. Waking up at an ungodly hour hasn’t helped. And feeling like such utter crap. Yohji’s body obviously doesn’t want to be treated like a temple. It thrives on a strict regime of brothel.  
   
Even hitting the shops hasn’t helped. Who knew that Sunday mornings attracted so many families with aggravating children? Their screams were piercing enough that Yohji decided he must have drunk more than he realised last night. Surely he wouldn’t have a headache this bad unless seriously hung over.  
   
Not as if there was anything worth buying anyway. Yohji’s favourite clothing stores seemed to have entered into a conspiracy of drabness. Echhh.  
   
Thank God for Seven. The wind in Yohji’s hair is soothing enough that he can almost ignore the nagging lack of a rakishly held cigarette. Safer to have both hands on the wheel anyway. Especially on this winding coast road, with the sunset-glare harsh against his shades.  
   
Yohji finally finds a beach deserted enough for his tastes. Far from the shrill laughter of prepubescent humans. Far from the wary eyes of teammates, shocked at his breakfast appearance. Far from any shops that might even think about selling tobacco.  
   
Yohji pulls up on the sandy verge with a sigh of relief. The seal-crack of his outrageously expensive bottle of single malt whisky is the most beautiful sound imaginable.  
   
~  
   
Sand. Sand really is wonderful. So cool and dry against Yohji’s fevered skin. Soft as he burrows his hands into it. Cradling his lovely bottle of salvation, right where he left it. Magic.  
   
And the perfect circles, just visible in the moonlight, where a few drops spilled. Sand clumping together. Transformed. Yohji can pick them up on a careful fingertip, mesmerised by the rounded edges of the tiny discs until they crumble away.  
   
Ooops; didn’t mean to make a circle quite that big. Waste. Waste of whisky. Yohji giggles. He begins to carefully excavate his creation in one piece. Not a circle really. More like an ellipsy-thing. A solipsism? Whatever. An oval. Damn. A mess now.  
   
What’s this? What a waste. Throwing away a perfectly good, hardly smoked cigarette like that. Only a bit wet from the whisky. Bet you could taste the malt. If you smoked it, that is. Not that Yohji would. He doesn’t have a lighter anyway. Deliberate choice that. Because Yohji’s smart. He always gets what he wants.  
   
Seven has a lighter. Good thing that. Because it is getting a bit cold now. And the darkness has deepened somehow. Might need to make a fire. For light. And warmth.  
   
Yohji stumbles up the sand. The door handle is uncooperative so he piles over seven’s side, ignoring the sharp pain as his head collides with the steering wheel. He pushes in the cigarette lighter and waits for the little clunk that will let him know it is glowing hot.  
   
Yohji wakes with drool sticking his jaw to the leather door interior. His neck aches fiercely and he itches in all sorts of places sand should never be allowed to access. Disoriented, he squints to see what he is clutching. Shit. He didn’t smoke that, did he? Wouldn’t he remember?  
   
He rubs bleary eyes. It is just starting to get light. Where are his shades?  
   
Yohji searches until he finds them down on the sand. Lying next to his empty bottle. The lenses are scratched. Damn, they were expensive. Snatches of last night drift back. So close to messing up again. Good thing he passed out first.  
   
The splash the whisky bottle makes in the sea is far too small to placate Yohji’s growing ill humour. He must have swallowed half the beach judging from the desert in his mouth and the irritating tickle in his throat.  
   
The dull throb in his head spikes sharply when he realises the cigarette lighter never popped back out. Yohji groans miserably. He left Seven’s lights on. So he could play with the sand.  
   
Holy fucking flat battery.  
   
~  
   
Aya must be feeling pissy too, because he shuts up Ken’s righteous whines about Yohji’s unreliability before Yohji’s murderous mood results in bloodshed. So he’s six hours late. What do you expect from road service on a Monday morning?  
   
Ken’s lucky Yohji showed up at all. The tickle has turned into a persistent, dry cough that threatens to fillet Yohji’s brain with each painful slice through his skull. He is only here because he desperately needs the distraction. He was contemplating combing the beach for more discarded butts, and finding out if rubbing two sticks together actually works when rescue finally arrived this morning.  
   
Ken disappears to load the van with deliveries and Yohji is thankful for the silence. Aya knows how to give a man space. Space in which to brood. Space in which to realise that he is totally stymied. He can’t go to bars. He can’t go to clubs for the same reason. He can’t drink. And that means he can’t pick up women. Yohji hasn’t sat through an evening of sober conversation in order to get laid by someone he is never going to see again for… Well, ever.  
   
Damn. Aya got the trifecta with a single bet.  
   
It’s too quiet. Where are all the customers?  
   
Yohji’s relief at the jangle of the front door lasts until he takes a fervent dislike to the lithe man who strolls to the counter and moulds himself against it, dragging gracefully on a cigarette. Everyone knows that pouring yourself into full body skin-tight leather for day wear is just… tacky.  
   
“No smoking in the shop,” Yohji grits, a false smile sneering onto his mouth. “It’s bad for the flowers.”  
   
“Feh,” Ken booms from right behind him. “Not like you ever follow that rule.” Yohji bristles as Ken reaches over his shoulder for the delivery list.  
   
“I gave up _Kenken_. You must have missed the memo.”  
   
Ken opens his mouth in a snarl, flicks his eyes to the side, thinks better of it and leaves.  
   
Yohji turns his disappointment back to the main focus of his grievance, to find that _Aya_ has beaten him to it. Aya who never serves anyone without substantial coercion. Aya who is leading the stranger into the shop and engaging in polite conversation.  
   
Yohji watches in amazement as the stranger flicks long, glossy hair back over his shoulder and laughs. The bastard’s flirting. Flirting with Yohji’s potential boyfriend.  
   
And Aya hasn’t shut him down with one of his patented death glares yet. In fact, it’s hard to tell from here, but Yohji is pretty certain that Aya is actually _smiling_. A smile that probably wavers as the obnoxious customer allows ash to tip onto the Koneko’s floor. But that’s still a far cry from Aya forcing the man to vacuum the shop with his nostrils.  
   
By the time the red haze clears from Yohji’s vision, Aya has rung up a sizeable purchase. Yohji almost breaks a tooth on the pen he is gnawing at when Aya accepts a business card slid smoothly across the counter.  
   
“Thought that fucker would never leave,” Yohji growls as the door swings shut. “What is he? Bondage gear model? Hooker?”  
   
Aya glances at him coolly. “Public relations.” He flicks the card into the trash but Yohji isn’t fooled for a second. Aya can memorise phone numbers with a single look.  
   
This would be the perfect time for a nicotine hit. Yohji fishes the card out of the bin and takes great pleasure in stabbing tiny holes in it with his pen tip until it disintegrates completely.  
   
~  
   
A whole week. Yohji’s lasted a whole week without a cigarette. And he has managed not to kill anyone in the process. Not that he would have minded a little legitimate violence to help with the worst of the cravings. But the only mission Kritiker assigned them the last week was straight surveillance. Ken and Omi paired off in record time. Yohji might have felt hurt if he weren’t so relieved. He can’t take any more of Omi’s helpful internet research suggestions about nicotine patches, visualisation and meditation. Yohji’s a fucking assassin, not a monk.  
   
The worst is over now. Omi has been blatantly bolstering Yohji with the promise that the physical symptoms will lessen after a week. About time too. If cigarettes are so bad for you, how come Yohji can barely eat for all the mouth ulcers?  
   
Omi’s just trying to help. Ken on the other hand… If Yohji had to spend a couple of nights sitting in a car with Ken, one of them would definitely not survive. Hardly a day has gone by without them sharing a screaming match. Yohji thought Aya was the unhinged one. Omi has taken to hovering in their vicinity, ready with the quivering Chibi lip and shimmering eyes to quell any nastiness.  
   
The long, tedious hours in Aya’s porsche weren’t so bad. Aya has never let him smoke in his car and his threats, to make Yohji permanently still if he didn’t stop fidgeting, were at least familiar. In fact Aya has behaved more or less exactly the same as usual. Something Yohji reminds himself of, whenever the urge to garrote Ken for ‘casually’ mentioning Mr PR coming into the shop to enquire after Aya threatens to overwhelm him.  
   
Aya isn’t seeing anybody. Yohji is almost certain of it. He can’t believe otherwise. Because that would mean that Aya is stringing him along. Watching Yohji go through hell for no good reason. Aya isn’t _that_ twisted. Unless…  It’s just that Yohji has never been a poster boy for delayed gratification. Maybe Aya knew how hard this would be. Maybe Aya decided that this was how he could get Yohji to leave him alone once and for all…  
   
No. Aya has far sharper ways to get his point across. And Aya, while not exactly encouraging Yohji, has at least been tolerant of him this last week. He hasn’t bitched once about Ken rearranging shifts to minimise time with Yohji in the shop, or complained of being stuck with Yohji on the mission. He might even have glared at Yohji a bit less than usual; though Yohji has been drooling over him every chance he gets. Fuck meditation. Imagining Aya all flushed and sweaty is the only visualisation Yohji needs to get through this.  
   
A whole week. He is proud of himself. And he feels semi-decent today. Almost back into full flirting mode. The fan club has been suffering along with him. Time to brighten their lives again.  
   
Yohji’s self satisfied bubble bursts as Ken storms back from his break to slap something down on the counter in front of Yohji. The temperature drops several degrees as Yohji looks down to see a packet of Marlboros. He’s going to kill Ken. Stupid fucker hasn’t even tormented him with the right brand.  
   
“Do us all a favour Yohji – “  
   
Yohji’s hands cut off whatever else Ken was going to spout. Ken hauls Yohji across the counter and they go down in a tangle of limbs. Forget training. This is a messy school yard brawl, replete with wild swings. Neither of them manages to do much damage before Aya and Omi intervene. Omi wouldn’t quite be able to hold Yohji back, except that he isn’t really resisting, his temper cooling in the face of Aya’s wrath. Ken winces as he is slammed back hard into one of the display fridges. That handle to the back is going to leave one hell of a bruise.  
   
Ken is flushed red, struggling hard against Aya’s chokehold, his clothing twisted around his neck. Aya leans to growl into Ken’s ear, producing an astonishing transformation. Ken stiffens, eyes wide, colour visibly draining from his features. When Aya releases him, he stands stock still.  
   
Yohji’s smirk is short lived. Aya stalks across to him and yanks him out to the store room to do inventory and cool his heels. When he finishes, Ken and the cigarettes are long gone.  
   
~  
   
Fucking Mondays. Yohji owed Aya for covering his shift a week ago. Which means Aya isn’t here and Yohji has nothing to distract him. Ken is keeping his distance, but somehow the very knowledge of his presence is making Yohji itch for nicotine.  
   
This shit is supposed to be over with already. Yohji should be home free. Riding out the remaining weeks to collect his payoff. Instead, he woke early with the worst craving he’s had so far. A craving that has intensified steadily every time that fucking niggling cough kicks in. Yohji wants to scream at the fangirls, even though the crowd has already thinned out much more than usual for this time of night.  
   
Just ten more minutes. The front door jangles. Crap. Should have closed the shutters before. Double crap. It’s Mr PR himself, dressed to thrill in suede pants and a clingy silk shirt. Diamond stud glinting in one ear.  
   
Yohji hardly keeps himself from baring his teeth as the pretentious asshole looks searchingly around the shop.  
   
“Aya not here?” he asks Ken.  
   
“No, he’s not working today.” Ken glances Yohji’s way, somewhat nervously.  
   
“Never mind, we’ll catch up with each other soon. Tell him I stopped by.”  
   
He is out the door mercifully fast. Mercifully for him. Now he will never know that all that stood between him and death was a mob of squealing school girls.  
   
Yohji’s brain finally clears to register Ken’s gaping face inches from his own. Yohji’s hands ache from gripping Ken’s collar so tightly.  
   
“Yohji?” Ken gasps.  
   
“Where did you put them?” Yohji demands, shaking Ken for his answering look of bewilderment. “The Marlboros, where are they?”  
   
“I th-threw them out.”  
   
Ken’s shouts at him to not do this, but the fangirls are scattering and Yohji is gone.  
   
~  
   
The first drag is sheer bliss. Yohji inhales and inhales, eyes closed, lungs expanding until his chest feels impossibly light. He can visualise the smoke hitting his bloodstream. Warmth spreading from his heart, tingling all the way to his fingers, fizzing gently into his brain to soothe his raging thoughts.  
   
The exhale is even better. Irritation flowing out of him in a smooth stream.  
   
By the third drag Yohji’s head is spinning. For a moment he thinks he might actually float away; a glowing nicotine balloon. Then the weight of his ribs anchors him, driving forth breath that jags awkwardly in his throat. Yohji opens his eyes to watch the plume fragmenting into puffs with each convulsive movement of his chest.  
   
By the end of the cigarette, nausea has settled into the pit of Yohji’s stomach. He smokes another two anyway. Coffin nails. Hammering home the fact that he never had a chance with Aya. He was fooling himself all along.  
   
~  
   
Yohji reaches the hallway and almost collides with Aya. Knowledge hangs in the air between them for a long, strained moment.  
   
Aya breaks the spell by stepping around Yohji, who turns to watch him descend the stairs before continuing to his room in a daze.  
   
Yohji crumples the treacherous packet and hurls it at his door. He slumps onto his bed, head hanging. When he closes his eyes, all he can see is that look on Aya’s face.  
   
Shock. Regret. Disappointment.  
   
The pitiful cough is gone. It probably can’t get past the lump in Yohji’s throat.  
   
~  
   
Yohji jerks awake when he hears the sound of Aya’s footsteps in the hall. The pause is almost imperceptible. A noise so slight that it barely registers. A glimmer so faint, Yohji thinks he is imagining it.  
   
Aya’s door shuts and Yohji breathes out hard. He pads across his room. No note. Just the cigarettes. Packet further crushed when Yohji half steps on it.  
   
He might as well have one now. Not like he’s going to get back to sleep any time soon. He snaps the light on. Freezes. There is something else there. He leans down to see.  
   
Yohji’s heart thumps awkwardly into his ribcage.  
   
Nicotine patches.  
   
~  
   
When Aya opens the shop the next morning, he finds a battered cigarette package, neatly tied up with red florist’s ribbon, sitting smack in the middle of his work table.


End file.
